Once upon a time, in a corner of the world that hadn't quite figured out how to take itself too seriously (and honestly, it was a pretty cozy corner to live in), there was a donkey named Crispin. But he wasn’t just any donkey. Oh no! Crispin had ears so big they could catch the wind and make it whistle a tune, a gaze as deep as an endless well, and a smile that said, “Yeah, I’m a donkey, so what?” Plus, Crispin had such a special charm that even the clouds would flatten out a little in his path, out of respect, to make sure they didn’t block the sun while he walked.
Crispin lived in a magical garden that floated above a hill. This wasn’t just any garden with trees and plants, oh no! It was a place full of life, murmurs, and laughter. In the garden, carrots argued about opera with onions, tomatoes wrote poems at sunset, and purple plums were so wise that sometimes they would give little lectures on the meaning of light and color. All of this happened beneath the soft sigh of the leaves.
The problem — because there’s always a problem, you know, that “Once upon a time” usually comes with a little mess — was that Crispin didn’t feel like he belonged. Sure, he was adorable, had an intense look, and the veggies in the garden loved him, but our donkey dreamed of something more. He wanted to be a great troubadour, a wandering poet, a storyteller who would travel to unimaginable kingdoms. He wanted, in short, to be someone whose words made people feel the sweet shiver of imagination. But for that, he needed wisdom, something more than the pleasant chatter of the garden.
One day, Crispin heard a legend that had been passed from petal to petal, from seed to seed, from the depths of the earth to the last leaf. They said that at the farthest corner of the garden, beyond the blackberry bushes that danced, there was an old apple tree with a golden apple. This apple, they whispered, held the secret of infinite knowledge. Whoever took a bite would gain the deepest wisdom, the kind that lights up the soul and helps you not lose your house keys.
Crispin decided to go after it. What an adventure! One morning, the sun had decided to look like a giant honey pancake, with its sweet, sticky glow. He left the stable that was his home and said goodbye to the singing lettuces, who cheered him on with an impromptu song:
—Crispin, Crispin, the traveling donkey,
Don’t let the dust hide your effort!
Go down the path, find the apple tree,
And come back with verses in hand!
The carrots peeked out from the leaves, trying to hide their tears of emotion (which was tricky because carrots cry with orange ink that drips everywhere).
And so, Crispin set off. His steps were rhythmic: clap, clap, clap, like the sound of two coconuts clapping together — if you’ve ever tried to imitate the trot of a horse... well, a donkey in this case.
The first thing he came across, as he left the garden, was a field of giant mushrooms that looked like goblin hats in the middle of a parade. When he appeared, one of the mushrooms, tall and skinny with green spots, raised its voice:
—Hey, you, long-eared stranger! Where are you off to with that determined look on your face?
Crispin stopped, tilted his head, and answered politely:
—I’m looking for the apple tree of infinite knowledge. I want to be a wise poet.
The mushroom touched the brim of its hat — or its head that was a hat, honestly it was hard to tell where the mushroom ended and the hat began — and let out a mischievous chuckle:
—The apple tree of knowledge? What a task! Many have sought it, few have found it, and the ones who found it... well, let’s just say they don’t worry about much anymore. But if you're determined, follow this path to the hill of violet mist. From there, ask the wise Zup-Zup, the talkative beetle.
Crispin thanked the mushroom and continued on his way. Of course, he had no idea who this Zup-Zup was, but he trusted his instincts — and his long ears, which sometimes picked up distant sounds and whispers.
As he walked, the landscape began to change: the grass turned blue, the bushes bent into giant letters (C, O, R, A... It looked like the forest was trying to spell something!), and a gentle breeze smelled like lemon tea. At a bend in the path, Crispin arrived at the famous hill of violet mist. Why violet? Well, the mist looked like a giant cotton candy dyed with grapes. Crispin stepped through the purple haze, feeling a tickling on his nose.
Once out of the mist, he found himself face to face with Master Zup-Zup: a shiny beetle, the size of an apple, with emerald-colored armor and a voice as screechy as an out-of-tune violin.
—You must be Crispin, the dreaming donkey? —Zup-Zup asked in a know-it-all tone. —I’ve heard about you from the mushrooms. They say you're after the golden apple.
—That’s right. I want wisdom to tell stories and share my poetry with the world —Crispin said, trying to sound convincing.
The beetle laughed, creating a metallic echo:
—Do you even know what wisdom is? Do you think you'll find it in just one bite?
Crispin scratched his ear, a bit uncomfortable:
—No… I mean, yes… maybe. All I know is I need to learn. I feel a void inside, like there’s a missing piece to the puzzle.
Zup-Zup raised one of his legs (or hands?) and pointed to a path full of shiny stones:
—Follow this path to the Laughing Mirror Lake. There, look for the crystal spinning top. It will show you where the apple tree is. But be warned: wisdom isn’t always what you expect. Zup-zup-zup!
Crispin nodded and kept going. Along the way, he encountered some very strange characters: a carrot, having escaped the garden, pretending to be a flute; a robin with a top hat selling bad jokes for a smile; and even a worm claiming to be a dragon with a bit too much shyness. They all seemed to know the legend of the apple tree, and each had an opinion, a warning, or a joke about it.
—Be careful —said the worm, slithering elegantly—, the paths of knowledge are twistier than a badly cooked noodle.
Crispin thanked the worm’s advice and kept going, wishing that the paths were at least a little less twisty than that worm who thought he was a dragon.
Finally, he reached the Laughing Mirror Lake. It was a special lake because, instead of reflecting things as they were, it reflected them as they could be. Crispin looked into the water and saw his reflection: a version of himself with a fine mustache and a violin under his arm. His mouth was speaking beautiful words, so subtle that even the wind stopped to listen. Crispin sighed. That’s what he wished to become.
Suddenly, a tinkling sound on the water caught his attention. A crystal spinning top, spinning on the surface of the water without sinking, floated toward him. It had a smile etched into its transparent face — because, yes, the spinning top had a face — and its eyes were tiny amethyst beads.
—You must be Crispin, the poet-in-the-making? —said the spinning top, twirling elegantly—. You’re after the golden apple, right?
—Exactly —Crispin replied, feeling a bit tired, wondering how many creatures (or people) knew about his plans before he even did.
—Well then. The apple tree is at the center of the big garden. But not the one you left behind, no, no, no. There’s another hidden garden, one that can’t be seen by the eyes, only by the heart and understanding. To get there, you must pass the Chattering Wind. Go up the highest hill and shout your wish. The Wind will carry you.
Crispin left, thinking. A garden within a garden. Wisdom within wisdom. Couldn’t it be easier, like a simple direction: “Turn right, and there’s the apple”? But no, the important things are never easy. And Crispin understood that the challenges were part of the journey.
He climbed the highest hill, which smelled like freshly baked cake, and shouted:
—I want to find the apple tree of infinite knowledge!
The Chattering Wind appeared immediately. It was a wind with a mustache (why not?) that talked faster than a parrot in a hurry:
—So you’re Crispin! I’ve heard about you! Climb up, up, grab onto my gusts and I’ll take you on a whirlwind of words! But be careful what you think, the wind hears your thoughts and repeats them out loud!
Crispin carefully grabbed onto a gust (he’d never been grabbed by the wind before, and didn’t know where to put his hooves, but he tried). The Chattering Wind took off with a noisy breeze, shouting things like, “Crispin thinks his tail is too short” or “Crispin is a little afraid of heights,” which didn’t exactly help Crispin’s self-esteem. But he persevered, trusting that in the end, he would get what he wished for.
After a journey that included flying over a field of sunflowers reciting poetry backward and a flock of clouds shaped like sheep (or was it a flock of sheep shaped like clouds?), the Wind dropped Crispin in front of a huge, shining tree. It was the apple tree… or was it? It had iridescent leaves, and its branches seemed to form a wooden palace. There, at the center, hung a golden apple. Its surface gleamed so brightly that Crispin had to squint his eyes.
"Well, here you are," said a deep voice, a voice that came... from the tree itself?
Crispin tensed. The tree spoke again:
"You've come seeking wisdom, Crispin. Everyone talks about it, but few understand it. Bite me if you wish. Take my golden apple. But first, answer me this: Why do you want wisdom?"
Crispin took a deep breath. He could say, "Because I want to be the best poet in the world," or "Because I want to be famous." But no, he knew that wasn't entirely true. What he truly wanted was to understand the world, to understand why things were the way they were, and how his words could help others see the beauty he saw. He wanted to make others feel what he felt with the music of the wind between the leaves.
"I want wisdom to share it, to create stories that inspire, so others can see the hidden wonders. I don't want it just for myself. I want my poetry to bloom in the minds of those who hear it."
The tree fell silent. A bird with one shoe (yes, just one) landed on a branch and tapped the golden apple with its beak, as if inspecting its quality. Then it flew away without saying a word. The silence was so intense that Crispin felt a shiver.
"Take the apple," said the tree at last. "Go ahead."
Crispin extended his hoof. He touched the apple and felt it warm. Suddenly, just as he was about to bite into it, the tree shuddered. Something strange was happening. The apple began to move, making little noises:
"Hey, hey, easy! What are you doing?"
Crispin nearly fell from the shock. The apple… was talking! And not only that, it had eyes, a little mouth, and tiny teeth. It looked like an apple-parrot, or an apple-frog, something like that.
"You're not going to eat me! Not at all!" exclaimed the apple, rolling away on the branch. "I've had enough visitors with strange ideas, but this one beats them all!"
Crispin was stunned. He looked at the tree, which seemed to be silently laughing:
"Didn't you want wisdom? Well, there you have it, in the form of a very, very stubborn apple."
The apple turned toward Crispin with an offended look:
"I’m not stubborn, I’m independent. Big difference! If you want 'wisdom,' you’re going to have to earn it. And besides, why does everyone want to bite me? Don’t they know how to talk?"
Crispin, feeling apologetic, explained:
"I’m sorry, I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. The legend says that whoever bites the apple of knowledge will gain infinite wisdom."
The apple crossed its arms (how? Who knows, imagination works wonders):
"Sure, and there are also legends that say if an ant wears boots, it will build skyscrapers on a grain of corn. Legends exaggerate. Wisdom doesn’t come from a bite."
Crispin felt something break inside him. Had he traveled so far for this?
"Then, what am I supposed to do?"
The apple looked at him with tenderness:
"Understand that you already have it. Wisdom isn’t an object, it’s not a magical fruit. Wisdom is the journey you’ve taken. Do you think all this journey hasn’t taught you anything? That talking to mushrooms, to a beetle, and a spinning top hasn’t changed you? Do you think your desire to share stories hasn’t grown stronger?"
Crispin thought. He remembered the mushroom, the beetle, the spinning top… each had given him a clue, a lesson, a new way of seeing the world. The Dragon-Worm, the Bad-Joke Robin, the singing lettuces… all had contributed little seeds of wisdom. Wasn’t that knowledge already?
The donkey smiled, understanding it all:
"You’re right. I’ve been searching for something that was already growing inside me. Wisdom isn’t an object; it’s a process."
The apple clapped enthusiastically:
"Bravo! That’s what you needed to understand. You’re already wise, Crispin! You have what you were looking for!"
Crispin felt immense joy. However, something still didn’t quite fit. He turned toward the tree and asked:
"But why does everyone talk about the apple tree of infinite knowledge if it’s really a process? Why this legend?"
And then came the great unexpected twist, the famous “plot twist” that makes jaws drop and eyebrows shoot up. The tree, the apple, the landscape… began to blur. Slowly, the floating orchard, the singing carrots, the beetle Zup-Zup, everything turned transparent, as if they were reflections in a soap bubble that someone popped with a pin.
"What… what’s happening?" Crispin asked, alarmed.
Suddenly, he found himself in a white, infinite place, like a huge blank canvas. And there, in front of him, appeared a figure impossible to describe in simple words. Imagine a mix of all the creatures he’d met: it had a mushroom hat, a beetle wing, the glow of a spinning top, the kind nature of a donkey, and the smile of an apple. This shape-shifting creature spoke in a serene voice:
"Crispin, dear, what you’ve lived wasn’t just a simple journey. It was a story told inside another story. You yourself are a character in the tale that is told to the seeds of the original orchard, the true orchard, to teach them the importance of growing and learning. You’re not a real donkey, Crispin, you’re a character in a story. Your journey existed in the mind of a great narrator: the orchard itself."
Crispin felt the ground (if there was even ground) shake beneath his hooves. Him, a character in a story? Was he not real?
"But… am I not real?" he asked with a faint voice.
The creature bent down, understanding:
"You’re as real as ideas. You exist in this story. Your feelings, your learnings, all of that is as valuable and true as anything. The orchard, in its infinite wisdom, created this story within itself to teach its inhabitants. And you, Crispin, are the protagonist of that teaching."
Crispin thought about his desire to be a poet, to tell stories. Now he understood that he himself was a story, a living lesson. Far from feeling sad, he felt honored. What greater wisdom than to understand that one is part of something bigger, a great universal narrative?
"Can I still be a poet, even if I’m just a character?" Crispin asked timidly.
The creature smiled:
"In fact, that’s exactly what you are. Your poetry shapes the scenes, inspires the little sprouts of the orchard to raise their leaves and learn. Every verse you create is born in the mind of the narrator, and from the narrator into the minds of those who listen. So go ahead, Crispin. Be a wise poet, a troubadour who sings from the heart of this story."
Crispin nodded. Suddenly, the figures that had faded began to reappear. The hill, the apple tree, the Talkative Wind, the Smiling Mirror Lake, everything returned, but this time Crispin saw it with new eyes. He understood that he was part of a bigger story. And far from feeling trapped, he felt free, because now he knew his purpose: to inspire, to share, to transform the inner reality of anyone who heard his story.
He said goodbye to the apple tree and the apple, thanking them for the lesson learned. He descended the hill riding on the Talkative Wind, who, this time, out of respect, did not voice his thoughts aloud. He returned to the floating orchard where the singing lettuces, philosophical carrots, and wise onions were eagerly waiting.
"Crispin is back!" they shouted, shaking their leaves.
"Tell us, tell us, what have you learned?!" exclaimed the carrots, forgetting their proud posture.
Crispin took a deep breath and began to tell, with soft and precise words, everything he had experienced. He talked about the Zup-Zup beetle, the glass spinning top, the lanky mushroom, the talking apple tree, and the feisty apple. He described the journey in detail, using fun metaphors and crazy comparisons, making the vegetables laugh until one lettuce almost passed out from laughing. And when he reached the part of the big twist, when he discovered he was a character in a bigger story, the entire orchard fell into a reverent silence.
Then, the seeds in the soil, which had been listening in their slumber, began to germinate. Green sprouts emerged, inspired by Crispin’s words. Listening to his story, they gained the courage to grow, to learn, to become strong and wise plants. And the orchard felt a wave of joy, for it understood that this was Crispin’s purpose: to be the poet who nourishes the spirit of those who grow in the soil.
Crispin, satisfied, looked up at the sun, which shone with a golden hue. He no longer needed to bite a magical apple. Wisdom was there, in his experience, in his ability to share, in the awareness of being part of a great story. It wasn’t any less real for being a character; his reality was different, made of words and imagination, and it was just as valuable as any other.
And so, in that magical orchard, Crispin became the wandering poet he had always wanted to be. He traveled with his verses through the leaves, through the branches, through the minds of the creatures who lived there. His poetry made smiles bloom, lit the lights of understanding, and, every now and then, sparked laughter so loud that it tickled the roots of the earth.
In that corner of the world, which still didn’t take itself too seriously, wisdom stopped being a shiny fruit hanging from a branch and transformed into a river of words, stories, and continuous learning. And Crispin, the long-eared, deep, and charismatic donkey, became the guardian of that river, feeding with his song the dreams of all.
And so, the story doesn’t end, because it lives in every mind that remembers it, reinvents itself in every eye that reads it, and blooms in every heart that feels it. That’s the true power of stories, don’t you think?